


Other Days for Dreams

by icedteainthebag



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 17:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/600547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icedteainthebag/pseuds/icedteainthebag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What brought them together was gone; what was left?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Days for Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariadnes_string](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/gifts).



Brody was the last person Carrie had expected to see at her door that night.

Wished, yes. Expected, no. 

The entire day had been like a nightmare, then a dream. 

Nazir had been a ghost to her until the past three days, a poltergeist haunting her waking and sleeping hours. Drawing her energy, good and bad, bringing her to unfathomable heights and lows. For ten years he’d held her captive--a carrot and a stick. Chasing, missing, chasing.

He had a face and she’d seen it, alive as any, dark eyes and sweaty face, the acrid smell of his body making him real. Making him human. He had touched her, attempted to seduce her mind, a cunning snake with a silver tongue.

Now he was gone. All Nazir had left were marks on her body and her psyche. 

Her body would heal. 

For the first time, she could see the evidence of that captivity. Skin chafed red, her face mangled. She couldn’t stop touching it, reading its reality. This wasn’t the first time she’d been injured in the field, but instead of wounded she felt free. Freedom lifted the veil slowly. She’d never seen it clearly until now.

She’d been a prisoner. And now, even though she wasn’t, it was like he’d gone off in her head. Shards of memories of the path that had led her to this point, scattered around her mind like pieces that could never be put together again.

Iraq. Estes. Clozapine. Brody. Saul. Her mind, her family. Isa. Walden. 

The truth was, the prospect of living without these pieces frightened her. Who was she without them? But that was where Brody came in. Love like she’d never experienced spilt like oil over those pieces, tainting everything, and she couldn’t rid herself of it, no matter how hard she convinced herself she was trying.

But now that it had happened, now that Nazir was gone, could it be simply as easy as that? A dozen rounds into the chest of evil and suddenly she was set free?

How could it be so easy?

There had to be a catch somewhere. This is what one side of her mind said, the stronger side, the side that had always mattered more. It had until Brody.

She took Brody quietly into her apartment and led him by the hand to her living room. 

Brody was silent as he entered, his lips pursed as he stared at the blank bulletin board on the wall across from them. Blank except for one picture at the top--Nazir. She couldn’t take him down yet. He still felt too alive to her.

It used to be full of pictures of Brody, intelligence about him. So much of their history was in this small space and he knew little of it. She wondered if he suspected that the surveillance he knew she conducted had been done on that very couch.

She had been observing his every move. Observing his pain and absorbing it, watching his family and its implosion. He was a case study. Taking notes, the spark of her obsession began.

She knew she was obsessed. She wasn’t far enough removed from her state to deny that she had a tendency to do this. Those who gave her too much credit would call it tenacity.

That tenacity is what brought her to this moment, where Brody, on her doorstep, offered himself to her. He had lied for her, gave up lives for her, offered up his father to her. He had lost his family for her.

Like most conquests she’d faced, she could declare this one a victory. It was what obsession did to her--disallowed her to settle for anything but what she wanted, what she knew was right.

“He did this to you.” Brody’s voice was gruff and drew her back to the feeling of his fingers tracing the red track marks around her wrist. Her flinch was involuntary, pain a sensitive tickle at the raw nerve endings he touched with his fingertip and his words. He didn’t stop.

“It’s too early yet to feel like all this is over,” she said. “We talked about what it would be like, if we could save each other, but is it bad that I never expected it to happen?”

“I didn’t.” Brody touched her hair. “I never believed we could make it this far.”

She held back an uncharacteristic analysis of these results--that maybe this was meant to happen--because that discounted everything it took to get there. Whether they meant for it to happen or not, here they were.

“Nobody believed me. That you’d lead us to Nazir. Nobody trusted either of us.”

And now David could go fuck himself. He probably was, right at that moment. Something about that deeply satisfied her--all the times he undercut her, devalued her, when he kicked her out of the agency when she was right. She’d gotten her man, both of her men, and David was left alone, again. Her gut feeling is that he deserved it.

“Who told you Nazir was dead?” she asked.

“Jess.” Brody had lost a wife and a father today. The impact wasn’t lost on Carrie. He looked shell shocked. “They couldn’t understand my reaction. There was no celebration. This man who owned me, who broke me, was suddenly gone. He couldn’t hurt me again. And I felt gutted, like someone had ripped my heart out. I couldn’t cry in front of them.”

“He was like a father to you.”

“I fucking hate that he was.”

“Don’t.” Carrie ran her fingers over Brody’s arm, her hand settling on his. “You overcame all of that. And unlike him, you’re still here. Do you know how strong that makes you?”

“Does it seem real?”

Brody shook his head, still staring at her wound. It was nothing like his scars. Her marks would fade. “Not a lot does.”

“We are.”

“Are we?”

She nodded, tugging on his hand to lead him to the couch. They sat down next to each other, awkwardly at first, until he put his hand on her shoulder and she slid across to curl into his side, smelling the scent of his lingering sweat and faded cologne.

Funny that he had made the deal with the CIA to save his family. Carrie had hoped that saving meant saving their lives and not saving what little structure was left. They were beyond salvation, at least the family as he’d most likely envisioned it so many times over the years he spent in that hole. What a soldier came home to was never the pretty picture he set in his mind when he was fighting for his life. For every torture he’d been through, they’d imagined it happening. 

So instead, he left his family to be with her. That idea, in the interrogation room, was something she said before she thought about how it sounded, a desperate attempt to get him to break. The idea broke her at the time. She didn’t expect it to come true.

“You know what you said back in the motel about after this all being over, we’d be together? That maybe we could be each others’ way out?” he asked.

She hadn’t forgotten about it. It haunted her, a pipe dream. “Yes.”

“I want that. I... I don’t know how long it’s going to take to get there, but I know I want to get there with you.”

There were no words she could say after that. He was speaking her mind, somehow having claimed her hopes tangled with both their reality.

She tilted her head up and put her hand on his face, drawing him into a kiss. It was different, patient, a slowly blossoming lust for each other and this was the seed. Tonight, they didn’t have to rush.

They’d done it all in this short, torrid span of time they’d spent together. Drunken fucking, making love--or what she thought was making love--rough, animalistic taking of each other in that motel room where she felt dirty playing double agent. Quinn seemed to see through that ruse and she hated it. But she got the job done. Whether or not her heart was affected was her business--it was no business of Quinn, not fucking Estes, not Saul.

This was starting out as a mixture of those and she wasn’t sure what she truly wanted. 

A small part of her wanted him to make it hurt, to hold her wrists so she could feel what it was like to be captive again. Because she was, if not by Nazir, then by this man and everything wrong that came along with wanting him so badly. This still felt dangerous, the impending doom still palpable despite her complete trust in him. The pain could remind her of that. There would be other days for dreams.

This time, maybe pleasure would win over pain.

She reached over, placing her hand on his thigh. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, though she couldn’t deny the feeling that she wanted something more. She always wanted something more.

The guilt that prickled her skin, the first time she’d felt guilt in being with him. Strange that it would come at such a time when he seemed finally free.

He kept her gaze, his fingers encircling her wrist and shifting her palm to the front of his jeans. Heat and hardness and she could have sworn that the pulse under her palm matched the rhythm of her own heartbeat, elevated, anticipating the predictable.

Her fingers lightly stroked him and he let out a slow breath, more calm than she’d ever seen him. “Is this what you want?”

“I always want it,” he said, with that incredulous tinge to his voice that he seemed to get with her so often. “I can’t explain it.”

She increased her pressure against the outline of his cock, her own body beginning to throb. Words weren’t coming out, only streams of thought were swirling around her head but nothing seemed worthy enough to say.

Instead, she found the button of his pants and unfastened it, then lowered the zipper and teased him through his underwear while kissing him deeply, nipping at his lips and teasing his tongue until he moved her hand away with a groan and a low laugh. He took her hand off and worked his pants down, kicking them off his ankles. 

She kneeled in front of him and tugged at his boxer briefs, inciting him to lift his hips so she could remove them. She ran her hands up his calves, teasing his inner thighs with light strokes of her fingers followed by her lips. He watched her. This wasn’t something they’d done before, but not for lack of trying. 

_The cabin was quiet, always unsettlingly quiet, and the roaring fire colored his muscled chest gold, with shadows of red. She leaned in, over his lap, and he suddenly shoved her, too forcefully, knocking her on her ass. He hadn’t realized his own strength and she sat back, frightened her for a split second before she realized that there were no ill intentions behind it._

_“I’m sorry,” he whispered, staring blankly into space._

This time could be different, though she still watched his eyes for any sign that she should stop. She kissed his cock and saw his body relax, as if the instinctual defense he was expecting to occur had surprised him when it didn’t. His hand gently caught strands of her hair as she slid her tongue alongside the bottom of his shaft, stroking and feeling herself grow wetter at the low moan that finally escaped him.

She’d dreamed about this, as much about control as it was about desire. There was something about a man falling apart completely under her that was intoxicating. She craved it. This man in particular--offering him that release, and him giving it up to her entirely--was a sweeter sense of success. It was him finally surrendering. 

She took him into her mouth, closing her eyes and listening to him breathe her name. Tasting him salty and hot against her tongue, she gripped his taut thigh muscles, sucking intently, rubbing the sensitive spot under the head of his cock with the tip of her tongue.

She was good at sucking cock. She’d had a lot of practice. Her skills weren’t lost on him and he was quickly moving with her, gripping her head, whispering words of encouragement. “Yes, please, yes, fuck Carrie.”

She hoped that Allah wouldn’t slip into the conversation. She didn’t know if she could handle it.

Suddenly his legs twitched and he pulled away, pushing her back from him. “Get up here,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the side.

She was used to the pattern of his scars by now. They hadn't ever been particularly shocking to her--she'd seen a lot worse. But it had never been humanized in such a way to her. She'd never kissed them, traced them with her hands while arousal joined the feeling of utter helplessness. The first time they were together in the cabin she has focused on righting that pain. She had no sense of duty now, save the duty she felt to help him realize that leaving his family for her was the right choice.

Now she was scarred, from the same man, for the same reasons. For as long as they lived, he would be on their bodies.

She took her time undressing. This was new to them too--usually they were tearing each others’ clothes off but this time wasn’t as desperate. 

“Are you ready?” he asked, kissing her deeply. 

“You tell me,” she murmured against his lips. He did, sliding his hand between them and cupping her, fingers slipping through her wet folds.

“Fuck.” Two fingers entered her and she echoed his words, tossing her head back and teasing him by riding his palm, his erection rubbing against the inside of her thigh.

"Take it easy. We have all the time in the world now."

Maybe she didn't necessarily believe it, not entirely, but enough.

They began to move slowly together, but he let her gently lead him, his hands on her ass. He looked in awe of her. It was equally unusual and thrilling. She had finally brought him respite, even more so than the cabin. Maybe there would be no nightmares tonight.

Maybe she was too full of herself.

He slipped his hand between them and began to gently stroke her clit. Her body was still new to him--and she knew it had been so long since he'd touched a woman this way--but after a few moments of frustration he found the right spot and she felt her body shiver with pleasure.

"There. Don't stop." She reciprocated by grinding into his lap, squeezing her muscles around him until he groaned and pulled up on her ass, nearly lifting her off of him.

"Make me come." His voice was low and commanding.

"Make me first."

He smiled at the challenge and she knew it wouldn’t take much. His fingers moved faster, more roughly against her. She needed this--her body hurt, her heart ached, her mind needed to be cleared.

She came, her fingernails embedded in his shoulders, knowing that he probably barely felt it, a man’s capacity for pain cumulative. He grunted as she gasped, twitching around him, fucking him as hard as she could in the aftermath of her orgasm. The squeak of the leather couch under their bare skin became inaudible as their sounds and breath played over it.

He rose up to meet her and fell apart, crying out, sounding nearly as desperate as she had been for the release. There was a tear in the corner of his eyelid squeezed shut. It could have been so many things. She wasn’t one to interpret it.

Carrie pressed her body close to him and it still didn’t feel close enough. Not even when he pulled over a blanket, worn and soft, and covered them, and kissed her head, still limply inside her and seeming content to stay that way. It wasn’t close enough.

Tomorrow would inevitably arrive, bringing with it questions and decisions, none of them easy.

These few hours they had left would be deservedly quiet, invaluably precious.

For the first time in months, the loop running in her mind fell silent.


End file.
